slasherholic

[slasherholic]

I always wondered if Asa gets hard when he is disciplining/torturing a pet, I'm 100% he's into it but I don't see him wanting to show that weakness to his lovely victims, doesn't want to give them the reward of satisfaction of seeing what they did to him (meanwhile the pet is absolutely terrified in the back)

Nah imo Asa most definitely wants you to know that he’s getting off on torturing you. That just makes it all the more terrifying, because it means he would inflict pain on you without needing a reason, such as discipline. He doesn’t see being turned on while torturing as weakness. It gives him dominance.

If he were to discipline a “normal” victim like idk let’s say a random guy he plans on displaying in glass, I doubt that’d be sexual. You’re just a project to him. An animal that won’t behave. You’ll be put in your place. It doesn’t get him hard.

Victims like Abby, on the other hand—disciplining and torturing would be inherently sexual. It might not start out that way, but it for sure would devolve into it. You will be sexually humiliated, tortured—and you will be made aware that it’s getting him off... because he will make you get him off. You’re his little special torture-fuck doll. That’s your whole purpose.

And if he captured you and you try to use your sexuality as a way to gain control over him, he’d see right through you. He might play along at first, give you a false sense of control, but he’d turn it around on you soon enough. Or he would just disregard it, torture you, then fuck you (à la isn’t this what you asked for)

[slasherholic]

Contains: abusive relationship mention, reader learns about Abby

ao3 link

Asa Emory/The Collector x Criminologist!Reader | To Love a Monster | Chapter Three

part one -> part two

The coffee shop Elena chose was tucked into the corner of a brick plaza, inconspicuous. It was quiet, the kind of place built to disappear into. Dull brick walls, worn wooden tables, a chalkboard menu written in curving hand. The air smelled of cinnamon and burnt espresso. You chose a table in the back, far from the windows, back against the wall, a clear view of the door. Just in case.

When Elena walked in, she looked exactly as she had on screen. Sharp. Solid. A woman carved from survival, not sculpted by. No makeup. Hair, now grown out, pulled into a practical knot. Jeans, worn boots. She sat down across from you without smiling.

“You’re the student,” Elena said.

You nodded. “Thank you for coming.”

Elena didn’t smile. She didn’t seem the type. “You said you’re studying criminology. Why?”

The words you’d practiced felt wrong. Something about justice, about understanding. But it all felt rehearsed. Distant.

“Because people hide things,” you said finally. “And I want to see underneath.”

Elena’s brow lifted. Not quite approval. Not quite suspicion.

“And Asa Emory? What about him?”

You shrugged, too casual. “He’s just my assigned subject. The paper is supposed to be on the duality of man.”

You could hear your own voice tightening. “He was a professor, right? Mild-mannered. Respected. Then you peel back the surface and...”

“The Collector,” Elena said. Her voice was quiet, flat.

You nodded. “Exactly.”

Elena’s gaze didn’t waver. “Has he fascinated you for a while?”

You blinked. “Not—not in that way. It’s just for the paper.”

There was a pause. Elena watched you, searching.

Then she said, “Did they tell you about Abby?”

You shook your head. “Who?”

Elena looked past you, as though replaying something.

“One of his victims,” Elena said. “Or... one of his dolls. I don’t know how long she was there before me. She was in a trunk. Like the rest of us.”

You didn’t interrupt. Let her talk.

“He dressed her up. Makeup, vintage dress. She looked like a child playing pretend.” Elena swallowed. “She said she was his favorite. That he... loved her. Or something like it. But she was terrified. You could see it under the way she smiled.”

You nodded slowly, careful. Appropriate.

Her hands curled around her coffee cup. She hadn’t taken a sip.

“Her hands were scarred,” Elena said. “Like she’d been punished. Over and over. But she smiled like she couldn’t help it. Like he’d trained her to.”

You tried not to imagine it too closely. Failed.

“She died helping him. I think she thought she didn’t have a choice anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. You weren’t sure if you meant it. “And after?”

Elena frowned. “After what?”

“After you escaped. The aftermath. How did you cope?”

Elena studied you.

“Therapy. Testifying. Sleepless nights. Watching my friends die in my head over and over. The usual.”

You nodded, but your attention had begun to drift. A flicker of an image slid across your mind. You, in a vintage dress. Makeup neat, lips red, spine straight as you sat across from Asa again. Waiting.

You blinked it away.

“Do you still talk to Arkin?”

That made Elena sit straighter. Her expression shifted. Guarded now.

“No,” she said carefully. “Not often.”

“Do you have a way to contact him?”

“Why?” Elena asked. There was a knife beneath the word.

“Just more intel,” you said. “He was there. He fought him. Twice. There’s no one else who’s seen this much.”

Elena hesitated. Shook her head slowly. “He has a family. He disappeared for a reason. He doesn’t wanna be dragged back into this.”

“I won’t push,” you said, gently. “If he doesn’t want to talk, I’ll leave it.”

Another long pause.

Then Elena sighed, rummaged in her bag, and wrote a number down on the back of a receipt.

“Don’t tell him I gave this to you. And if he tells you to stop, you stop.”

You took the paper carefully, like it was something illicit. Folded it into your palm.

“Thank you.”

Elena stood. So did you.

“Be careful around him,” Elena said. “I watched him lie on the stand. Watched the jury nod along like he was their goddamn professor. He’s charming. Quiet. He knows how to become what you want him to be.”

You nodded. “I will. I am.”

You left without shaking hands.

—--

Back in your dorm, you locked the door. Pulled the folded receipt from your pocket. Dialed.

Rings.

No answer.

You didn’t leave a message.

You typed instead:

Hi. I’m a criminology student working on a project involving Asa Emory. I was given your number by a mutual acquaintance. I would deeply appreciate the chance to speak with you, even briefly.

You pressed send. Lay back on the bed.

Abby came to you then.

Scarred hands. Doll-like makeup. That dress.

How long had she lived like that?

How deep did he have to reach to make someone that obedient?

What would it feel like to be chosen for that?

To be remade?

Your mind folded it inward, reshaped it. You were in the dress now. Clean. Perfect. Waiting in that sterile room. Asa entering. Not in uniform. Not in black. Just himself. Unmasked.

He said nothing.

But he reached for your hand.

Your breath hitched.

Would he hurt you?

You weren’t sure. You wanted to believe he wouldn’t. That somewhere beneath the Collector, there was still Asa. The one who studied insects. The museum curator. The professor. The traumatized kid.

Maybe he just needed someone to see it.

To understand it.

You checked your phone. Still no reply from Arkin.

You opened your browser. Typed: Arthur Emory.

The man who built Asa.

The one who cracked him open.

[slasherholic]

Actual picture of Asa doing Abby’s hair

[slasherholic]

Good evening, favorite human being on this app. I wonder, in Red Room Asa kindly threaten warns about NOT bleeding over his clean sheets. I wonder what happens when she inevitably bled on it, punishment is 100% happening but is he mad? Or condescending? Oooh

Your ass is going in the trunk

HAHA I wouldn’t say he’d be mad, per se. I think it’s difficult to genuinely piss him off unless he already had a bad day to begin with. I’d settle with he’d be disappointed in you (condescension included)

He’d probably make you clean it up and then, depending on how many fucks he’s got left when it comes to making a mess, he’d punish you accordingly

[slasherholic]

Synopsis: You had a really rough day and desperately crave Asa’s presence. After pestering him about wanting to spend time with him, he gives in, and—abandoning better judgement—you get a bit too clingy for his taste.

Based on this

Contains: gender neutral reader, themes of an abusive relationship, physical violence, coercion, use of restraints, Asa being a dick

ao3 link

Asa Emory / The Collector x Reader | Can You Hold Me?

It had started with texts—too many, too soon, too needy. You knew it, even while you were sending them. You knew your messages came off as pathetic: little stabs of desperation laced with emojis and false humor, begging for a kind of attention he never gave freely. You told yourself it was harmless, that it didn’t count as real begging if you dressed it up in jokes. But you knew. You knew you were clinging again, like ivy up his spine, and still you kept going. Because you couldn’t not. Because there was no version of today that ended without you seeing him.

You told him you’d had a bad day. That you just wanted to lay on his chest. That you felt like roadkill. You said you’d stop texting if he just said yes. Or no. Either. You just wanted an answer. Just wanted to know if you were allowed to need him. The waiting made your skin feel too tight. The silence between replies stretched long enough to make you check if your phone had frozen. When he finally answered, it wasn’t softness. It was permission carved from annoyance: Fine. 7. Don’t be late.

It was raining. That awful, uninterrupted kind of rain—gray and thin and eternal—seeping into the lining of your coat, soaking your socks, flattening your hair against your forehead until your scalp ached. You hadn’t felt warm in even longer. The cold was an ache that had nestled itself into your spine and lungs. The sky pressed down, low and heavy, and the wind made you feel like your body wasn’t your own, just something to be pushed around.

You trudged along the sidewalk, your arms clutched tightly around yourself, the street slick with puddles reflecting the yellow haze of porch lights. The houses were quiet—too quiet—the kind of quiet that makes your thoughts louder, your loneliness sharper. You passed trimmed hedges, tidy mailboxes, wind chimes that hadn’t moved in hours. And then you saw it.

Residence 859. Asa’s.

Muted yellow paint, tidy porch with the red brick walkway winding up to it like a stitched scar through the rain, all those careful clay pots that lines the edges, half-drowned but standing straight. Curtains drawn back in every window. His place always looked like it was waiting for someone smarter than you. Someone who understood boundaries. Someone who didn’t fall apart in silence between texts.

You were soaked by the time you climbed the steps, your heart thudding like it knew it shouldn’t be here but didn’t know how to stop. You didn’t knock. You opened the door and stepped into the silence.

He was in the kitchen. His back was to you. Rinsing a mug.

You didn’t hesitate.

You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressed yourself into the heat of his back like you belonged there, like the wetness on your coat, your skin, your hair didn’t matter, like maybe if you just held him tightly enough everything else would fall away.

He went still.

“Did I invite you in?”

You blinked, your cheek against his shoulder blade, arms still around him.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I just... I missed you.”

“You’re soaked,” he said. Dry. Cold. As if the water were a crime. As if your presence was.

You didn’t let go.

“I’m sorry,” you said again, and again. “I should’ve knocked. I’ll knock next time. I just—please, I had a really bad day. I just wanted to be near you. I can’t think straight when I’m not near you.”

He stepped forward, breaking your grasp. Rinsed the mug again like you hadn’t touched him.

“Can I use the bathroom in peace?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Shame and heat flooded your face.

“I didn’t mean to—”

But he was already brushing past you.

Your hand reached out before you could stop it, your fingers catching his wrist. “Asa—”

That was the last thing you managed to say.

His hand clamped around your throat in a flash. No warning. No rise in emotion. Just action.

You couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t cinematic. It wasn’t loud. It was silent, clinical, like a door being shut quiet and efficiently.

Pressure. White noise. Hands to wrist but not to fight—just to stay grounded, to stay attached.

You felt the hair leave you. Eyes stung. Ears rang. Knees gave.

You remember thinking: This is what I get.

And then—

Dark.

Wood against your face. Cold, sticky breath through your parted lips. The sound of keys. Typing.

Click, click, click.

You turned your head. Saw him on the couch. Laptop open. Like nothing had happened.

“You want tea?”

Something inside you cracked.

You sat up slowly, painfully, your voice already burning as you choked out, “You choked me.”

He didn’t look up.

“You didn’t even warn me. You just—didn’t even look at me.”

He closed the laptop.

“I told you all day to stop. You kept pushing. You can’t cry about the fire when you hold the match to your own skin.”

Your mouth opened and shut. Your hands trembled.

“I didn’t know you’d...”

“You never know. That’s the problem.”

You pulled your knees to your chest, throat aching, stomach twisted.

He stood. Looked down at you like you were an equation he’d already solved.

“You can stay,” he said. “If you stop sulking.”

You stared. Silent. Then nodded.

“On one condition.”

You didn’t move.

“You’ll be tied up. All night.”

You inhaled too sharply.

He waited. He always waited.

“...Okay,” you whispered.

“Good.”

He pointed to the couch. “Drink your tea. It better not get cold.”

The mug burned your fingers. Your tears made it saltier. You drank.

When it was gone, he tapped his thigh.

You crawled. Head in his lap.

He stroked your hair. Spoke about nothing. Beetles. Larvae. A colleague’s presentation. The detachment in his voice should have repelled you, but it did the opposite. It lulled. It numbed.

Your tears slowed. Your eyes grew heavy. You cried quietly. And then you fell asleep.

He woke you up with his fingers.

“Bed.”

You stood. Stumbled. Followed him.

“Clothes off.”

You obeyed.

Underwear remained.

“All of them.”

You blinked. Then obeyed again.

He returned with a towel.

“You’re still wet.”

He dried you.

Methodical. Firm. Not tender.

The towel rasped over your skin. Your body flinched at each stroke. Not from pain—from something worse. From the realization that you liked this. That being touched by him—even like this—still felt like salvation. Like being seen. Like being something he acknowledged, even if it was just a problem he was solving with a dry towel and a pair of cuffs.

He dried your arms. Your back. Your legs. Avoided your eyes.

You were bare. Vulnerable. Wet in more ways than one.

But you said nothing. Because this was what you asked for.

When he was done, he took the restraints.

“Is this really—”

His eyes stopped you.

You turned your wrists over. Offered them.

He tied you. Not tight. But enough.

In bed, his breath evened out quickly.

Yours didn’t.

You stared at the ceiling, ribs rising and falling.

You were angry. You were ashamed. You were in love.

And that’s why you couldn’t leave.

You laid there long after his breath evened, trying to listen to it like it was a lullaby, trying to make it enough. You were tired. You were raw. But you were here.

Eventually, sleep found it.

And you let it take you.

[slasherholic]

Don’t know if this is valid but: rough but affectionate Asa 🙏🏻

He’s a grumpy man but he’s OUR grumpy man and he definitely doesn’t mind it 🫶🏻

(Bonus: sitting on his lap while he yaps)

Picture this: you had a really rough day at work and just really crave some TLC from Asa

You had already pestered him all day that you wanted to spend time with him and he eventually gave in to get you to stop blowing up his damn phone

little did he know just how affectionate you were going to be

Flash forward to him CHOKING YOU TF OUT on the floor after you wouldn’t stop sticking to him like you were conjoined twins (can’t a man piss in peace)

At least he’s still close to you… right?

When you come to, still on the floor, Asa offers you a cup of tea like he didn’t just crush your airways. Nevertheless you accept—you learned your lesson, and he talks about his day while your head is rested on his lap, his hand affectionately stroking your hair. All the while you’re still trying to catch your breath with an aching throat.

[slasherholic]

I miss your old blog 😭 you had so many good asks and answers that I used to reread so often for collector daydreaming fuel

Then it’s up to people to send me some asks I can answer to fuel collector-daydreams :>

Best I can do is reblog old content of mine I come across, sorry my dude 🫶

[slasherholic]

if you're still doing the drabble thingie...

is it possible to get one for Michael?

theme would be patience

(please and thank you youre lovely and i love you <3)

Okay, this has been sitting in my inbox for far too long cracks knuckles let’s do this!

the drabble thingie

Contains: graphic description of a stab wound, slow death

Hunger | Michael Myers x Female Reader if you wish hehe

She jerks—spasmodic, failing. Blood bursts from the split in her belly with every shallow breath, a hot ribbon slipping down her skin, pooling in the divot of her hip.

He watches.

The wound is open, red and glistening, lips of torn flesh parting with each quiver. Her body’s trying to hold on, keep itself together, but it’s already unraveling.

She’s moaning now. Not words. Just sound. Wet and low.

He smells copper, sweat, the faint scent of piss. Her body knows before she does.

He waits. Watches her twitch like dying prey.

Patience sharpens the hunger.

He never rushes the feast.

[slasherholic]

Contains: gender neutral reader, Arkin and Elena mention, brief torture mention, reader having naughty thoughts about Asa (tsk, tsk)

ao3 link

Asa Emory/The Collector x Criminologist!Reader | To Love a Monster | Chapter Two

part one here

The weekend began as a blur, gauzy and off-kilter, like staring through breath-fogged glass. You moved through it unmoored, steps too slow, as though gravity pressed differently now. Your skin still hummed with the echo of that room—his presence. The way silence had stretched between you like thread pulled too tight.

You hadn’t slept. Not really. Only drifted at the edge of dreams, where he waited.

You brewed coffee you didn’t drink. Let it go cold on your desk. You opened your laptop and stared at the blank search bar.

Typed: Asa Emory.

Again.

And again.

There was nothing new you hadn’t already seen. Nothing you didn’t already know. The same headlines, archived footage, courtroom sketches that failed to capture the texture of him. And still you clicked, scrolled, skimmed. Looking for something new, some missed thread, though you weren’t sure if it was knowledge you wanted or just the feeling of circling him.

You rubbed at your eyes, the pads of your fingers damp with exhaustion.

What did you hope to find?

Not answers. Not exactly.

You searched his name again, this time alongside another:

Arkin O’Brien.

The man who escaped. Twice. The man who named him. The man who dragged The Collector into the light.

Nothing.

No interviews. No statements. No memoir.

He had disappeared.

Gone to ground, likely. You imagined him in some nameless town, hands always trembling just beneath the surface, his wife curling their daughter into her chest when headlights passed too slow outside. He’d earned his silence. You couldn’t blame him for vanishing.

And yet. You did.

Frustration bloomed, quiet and sharp.

You wanted to talk to him. Needed to. There was something about witnessing that proximity—what he’d seen, what he’d touched. The fire, the blood, the sheer nearness to Asa.

Your next search brought you Elena Peters.

A different kind of survivor. Loud where Arkin had gone silent. A dozen interviews. Podcasts. Panels. A face made familiar through repeated trauma. She was beautiful. Composed. The kind of woman who looked like she’d won.

You clicked a video. A soft-lit set. Elena sitting tall, her hearing aid glinting beneath her hair.

“Being a survivor,” she said, voice steady, “means choosing to live. Every day. It means refusing to be defined by the worst thing that happened to you.”

You clicked out.

Your eyes rolled before you could stop yourself.

That wasn’t what this was about.

You opened another. This one darker, raw. Elena recounting the moment she awoke in the trunk. The smell. The heat. The panic. A sliver of light—a small hole in the trunk. A man’s muffled screams.

“He had this guy strapped to the table,” Elena whispered. “Panicking. Crying. And Asa—he didn’t say much. Just... put his hand on the man’s face. Hushed him. Then he cut out his tongue. Injected him with something. It made him—feral. He stopped being a person. I couldn’t look away.”

A beat.

“Then he looked at me. Right at me. Through the slit. He knew I was watching.”

You sat frozen.

And imagined it.

The trunk.

You saw yourself inside it. Curled up. Waiting. The lid opening. Slowly. That mask. Those eyes. Calm and insectile. A knife in his hand, the shine of it catching light.

“Out,” he said. And you stepped out. No protest. Bare feet on cold floor. No clothes. Just breath and blood and nerve endings.

He looked at you. Not in a hurry.

You closed your eyes.

Your chest fluttered. You snapped back to reality.

Focus. Focus.

Elena had a public profile. She was reachable.

Your fingers hovered above the keyboard.

Then you typed:

Hi, Elena. I’m a criminology student working on a project involving direct interviews with inmates. I’ve been assigned Asa Emory. I would be so grateful for the chance to speak with you.

You read it three times. Sent it.

An hour passed. Then another.

You scrolled. Fidgeted. Read old articles again.

Then, a reply:

Are you with the press?

No, you typed. I’m just a student. I want to understand. You survived him. That matters.

No response.

Not until next morning.

Meet me tomorrow. Cinder Grind. 2 p.m. Don’t be late.

No greeting. No signature. Just a summons.

You stared at it, pulse quickening.

The day passed in pieces. Chores forgotten. Class noted untouched.

That night, the thoughts returned.

The trunk. That first intake of air. Your limbs asleep. Light cutting across your body. A shadow stretching across your chest.

Him.

No mask this time.

His real face. Calm. Focused.

He circled you. Said nothing.

You were already stripped bare—on a table now. You felt the cold radiating off of it.

His gloved fingers traced the inside of your thigh. Deliberate.

A scalpel, angled with affection, slid down to your pelvis.

You gasped.

But didn’t stop it.

Didn’t want to.

You woke before the blade broke skin, breath hitched in the dark, the taste of him still thick on your tongue.

Two weeks. Two visits left.

But you weren’t sure what you feared more:

Seeing him again.

Or how much you wanted to.

[slasherholic]

synopsis: you are a criminology student tasked with interviewing Asa Emory in prison to write an essay about him—along the way you find yourself developing feelings for the man notoriously known as The Collector, and things take an interesting turn.

alternatively: you are a criminology student being tasked to interview Asa and write an essay on him, only for you to fall for him despite knowing of his gnarly crimes, and for him to eventually escape prison, kidnap you and have you be his very first victim since being imprisoned. You having to come to terms with the fact that you weren’t as special as you thought you were to him—whilst actively fighting for you life, and your feelings for the man known as The Collector.

over-all plot contains: slow burn, body horror, dub-con, non-con, psychological torture, physical torture, sexual torture

this chapter contains: reader being an anxious wreck. this is some of the most tame shit I’ve written yet but should do for an opening :v don’t worry it’ll pick up

ao3 link

Asa Emory/The Collector x Criminologist!Reader | To Love a Monster | Chapter One

You didn’t want to look at him, not at first. Not when you entered the visitation room, fluorescent-lit and sterile, the ceiling buzzing faintly like a dying insect, and certainly not when the guard closed the door behind you with the cold finality of something sealed. You kept your eyes down, fixed on the dull sheen of the table, fingers twitching against the plastic ID badge clipped to your cardigan. A film of sweat was already gathering along your hairline. You hadn’t expected it to be this warm.

His silence filled the room before his presence did.

Asa Emory sat with his hands folded neatly on the table. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He simply watched you. The kind of watchfulness that stripped pretense, slowly, like peeling something soft from the bone.

“You have thirty minutes,” the guard had said. Your professor had reminded them, too: be professional, be brief, and above all, be careful.

You had rehearsed your questions. Bullet points scrawled in a slim notebook, tucked now into the crook of your elbow, forgotten. Your breath came too shallow. A touch of nausea clawed at your throat, not sickness exactly, more a kind of nervous hunger.

You sat down.

He smelled faintly of antiseptic and something darker beneath, like aged leather, or the corner of a museum no one visited anymore. His jumpsuit was clean pressed. Not orange—a muted brown, darker than you expected. His beard was clipped short. You imagined it coarser than it looked.

“Miss...”

He let the syllable hang.

You gave him your name. Too quickly. It sounded foreign in your mouth, inadequate.

His lips tilted slightly, not quite a smile.

“Well then.”

No warmth. No threat either. Just a quiet, simmering control. You tried to meet his gaze then and failed. His eyes were darker than you remembered from the few grainy courtroom photos that had made the rounds years ago. You had seen them once on a television in your mother’s living room, the news anchor speaking over charred remnants and caution tape. You had leaned forward, transfixed.

“You’re the first,” he said.

Your brows furrowed.

“To interview you?” you asked.

“Student.” A pause. “What made you pick me?”

You swallowed. Your throat clicked. The notebook was closed on the table, spine bent, the pages damp with nervous thumbprints.

“It was random.”

He leaned back slightly in his chair, just enough to let the silence stretch. One of his fingers tapped against his other hand, slow, methodical.

“That so?”

You let the words crawl inside you. A mild sense of panic threatened to unseat your composure, but you fought it down with a swallow. He was testing you. Of course he was.

Focus, you told yourself.

“What...” You forced yourself to begin, voice tremulous. “What were your early academic influences? Entomology, specifically.”

A faint amusement flickered at the edge of his expression. As if your question were quaint. Harmless.

“My father collected beetles,” he said. “Among other things. But mostly beetles.”

You nodded. Scribbled something illegible. It felt like pretending.

His voice was low, deliberate. “He had a way of arranging them. Shadowboxes. Taxonomies.” He paused. “People aren’t so different, if you know what to look for.”

You flinched inwardly.

He watched you for a long moment.

“How much have you read about me?”

Your pen stopped.

You blinked. “Only what’s been made public.”

“Of course.”

He tilted his head slightly, like something studying you. A spider in no hurry.

“Am I what you imagined me to be?”

You looked up at that. Met his eyes for the first time. It was a mistake.

His gaze pinned you.

You couldn’t breathe.

You told yourself it was the heat.

“I—” you started, but it didn’t matter. The rhythm had shifted. He had pulled the thread taut. And he would wait. He could always wait.

When the silence returned, it had changed. It wasn’t empty now. It held something. A shape.

You thought of that news clip again. His name, “The Collector,” spoken in hushed tones over ash and blood. You had been seventeen. Your mother told you to change the channel.

But you hadn’t.

And something inside you had shifted.

He leaned forward, just slightly, and your body betrayed you, leaned back in tandem.

“You study criminology,” he said. “Why?”

You didn’t want to answer. But you did.

Because of you.

Not aloud.

“Because I wanted to understand people.”

He smiled, barely. “That sounds like a lie.”

You didn’t respond. Your hands twisted in your lap. You hated yourself for sweating. For shaking.

His voice dropped lower, almost tender. “People don’t study monsters unless they want to find the monster in themselves.”

You didn’t argue.

��--

The car ride home was long and colorless. The road flattened under your tires like a ribbon unspooling into dusk, headlights from the opposite lane blinking past like old ghosts. Your body moved on instinct, shifting gears, taking exits. You watched yourself from somewhere high and outside. Detached.

A presence lingered in the back of your throat. Not a memory, but an impression. The room. The silence. The way he had looked at you like he was cataloging something. And the worst part was—you wanted to be cataloged. Named. Noted. Filed away in some dark drawer of his mind.

You hated that thought.

You didn’t stop it from returning.

—--

Your dorm room smelled faintly of coffee and fabric softener. You peeled off your cardigan, tossed it onto the chair, then crawled beneath the thin blanket of your bed, fully clothed. Your fingers twitched. Your legs felt restless. Your mind refused to still.

When you had closed your eyes, you saw his.

Not the color, not the specific shape, but the feeling of them. The heaviness of being seen. You tried to reframe the meeting clinically, professionally. Tried to pull it apart like a dissection.

But your thoughts betrayed you.

You remembered the way he said your name. The silence between sentences. The curve of his fingers where they folded against one another. The tension beneath the surface, like something leashed.

You shifted beneath the covers.

It wasn’t arousal. Not yet. But it was close. The beginning of something you didn’t want to name.

You pressed the pillow to your chest and held it there, tight.

There were two weeks left. Two more visits.

Thirty minutes each.

That was all.

[slasherholic]

saw this on TikTok today and had to share it with yall

[slasherholic]

I’ve done it again.

[slasherholic]

The Collector's House Floorplans

Hey everyone, sorry the floor plans took so long, I was finishing up my semester at graduate school for electrical/computer engineering and then got sick for most of last week. If you like my work, check out some of my writing! I'm currently focused on writing for The War of the Rohirrim.

Anyways, here they are! They were originally 36x28 inches so I really had to crunch them down to fit on here. If you want the full images just DM so I can send them to you.

The images were from @hong--zhi--zhu's post here and I got the idea from @darklylucid!

Feel free to repost/reshare, whatever you want, you don't have to ask! Also let me know if I should make any changes!

[slasherholic]

Top tier Asa x Favorite!Victim song btw 👀👀

[slasherholic]

I just know Asa would’ve been disappointed with my reaction LMAO

Having a June beetle tangled in your hair (out of view) and not noticing it until you’re randomly going through your hair and feeling a clump is an experience I never want to have again

[slasherholic]

Having a June beetle tangled in your hair (out of view) and not noticing it until you’re randomly going through your hair and feeling a clump is an experience I never want to have again

[slasherholic]

On that note, I don’t think I talked about it, but when Halloween Ends came out me and my best friend went to watch it (because of course we did) and literally ended up disliking it so much we almost walked out of the cinema halfway through (we only stayed because I insisted on seeing how it ended)

It was so disappointing, I REALLY wanted to like it :’)

It's been a while since we've talked abt michael...do you have any new/updated headcanons for him?🤤

Gotta be honest with you chief I’ve neglected Michael for so long that I honestly forgot all about the new potential headcanons I had in store for him :’)

I’ll get back to you on that once I rewatched the movies!